Låt oss diskutera litteraturens gränser.
Ja det kommer en dikt sedan, jag håller mig till topic -- för denna tråd -- som är egna dikter.
Men för diskussionen -- var det ju så -- att i en annan tråd
här i egna text-forumet -- diskuterades nyss om man fick skriva alltför hårda texter, texter som kan trigga vansinniga personer till exempel.
Jag
postade själv i tråden -- och sa att en författare måste vara rimligt fri. Man kan inte ha spärren "detta kan trigga en instabil person, jag låter därför bli att skriva". Ty då blir inget skrivet.
Man sätter tvångströja på konsten om vissa ämnen är tabu.
Litteraturen ska verka inom tryckfrihetsförordningen. Rent olagligt trams må bestraffas. Men i övrigt ska det vara fritt.
Och mitt eget författande i denna nisch är att skriva om världens undergång. Inte originellt i sig, men jag har personligen haft en del spärrar mot det. Främst för att jag inte stämmer in i MSM:s kör där alla texter om Mellanöstern alltid ska skrämma läsaren till underkastelse: WWIII väntar, förfäras du lilla hop..!
Men nu skiter jag i den effekt mina texter i ämnet kan ha. Ämnet
The Apocalypse. Rädsla, förundran, whatever -- detta är undergångspoesi jag filat på länge och väl. Och här är en engelskspråkig version (en svensk version har postats tidigare i tråden).
A P O C A L Y P S E
1.
Booze and pills
broken people
broken homes
broken arrow
broken culture.
Everything falls apart.
The world goes under.
I’m a zombie,
a shadow among shadows:
“happiness I cannot feel
and love to me is so unreal”.
From darkness to darkness,
from everlasting to everlasting –
and in between, fire and
emptiness, fire and
movement.
Titanic vistas
Volvo and Beijer
everything is hopeless
to die is to die a little.
Everything is sick.
To stop believing in goodness
is good. Worship the gutter,
the fool is king, the
receipt is poetry.
The everyday reality is
art, my life an epic.
2.
10 dead in Paris, now the world goes under...
10 dead in Ankara, now the world goes under...
10 dead in Aleppo, now the world goes under...
The peace of Pompeii, little fluffy
clouds drifting over the ruins where
the screams have died out for ever.
Pompeius Pompeianus, sulfur from the
sky and a firestorm over the bay. We invite you
to a dance in the dimension, Shiva Natarâja
leading the hop in a sea of flames, the
Devil polka flows and the Horga song sounds
in the night, macabre tunes to honor a fat man...
3.
Devil polka – dance of death – danse macabre.
The orchestra is tuning up.
“The downfall of the West.”
Dissonance and harmony mixed,
a leitmotif completed, turned around
and run backwards.
“... torrento!”
“What’s he saying?”
“There’s a storm coming up.”
“I know.”
“Break out, awaited storm!” (Chateaubriand)
Storming distance.
Soundtrack to the downfall:
Devil polka – dance of death – danse macabre.
4.
Everything falls apart
Everything catches fire
Everything burning up
Everything meaningless
I want to die.
The Whore of Babylon awaits with
hardcore porn and filth,
Apollyon sharping his knife,
the Angel of the Abyss looking
up from his hole, smiling
sardonically at mushroom
clouds on the horizon.
Four horsemen charging,
death and plague, knax and
knurg, all set for a dance
in the dimension, Devil polka and
We Built this City on Rock ‘n’ Roll.
5.
Take an extra cookie for your coffee,
the times are hard, the world
goes under this evening...
Everything falls apart and that’s
excellent, the Spengler fan says,
the culture must go under and then
a new era will rise from the ashes,
a time of hope and glory, will and truth –
magically a new phase will follow
the old but first the old must die,
die like the plant at the end of
its cycle, die like an outworn
organism, die like an old man.
So, die, you old culture and be reborn
like a new hope, you new paragon of
a culture, a world where the strong are
just, the weak secure and the peace preserved.
But first: smoke on the horizon,
ashes and ruins, panzer and blood,
endless suffering, souls crying – for
only thus a rosy new dawn shall rise.
6.
They are coming over the fields,
they are here to take over,
the Kings of Tomorrow,
wielding their NOVELS, the ones
they lie reading until five o’clock
in the morning.
They are here to take over
with their emergency news,
that’s the law, that’s what people
are hooked to, visions of forever
strangling your brother.
The Prophets of Tomorrow
speak of panzer and blood
and the end of the world –
for thus it is written, the
Apocalypse is nigh, we’re
screaming in the night in
a hail of blood and steel.
And then we’ll meet again
some sunny day at Cozy
Coffehouse for a porn party
with the Whore of Babylon and
Fasta Bysting, galvanizing
and hounding, raving and
drooling down hallways
going on forever.
7.
The atom storm is raging –
“nuke ’em till they glow,
then shoot ‘em in the dark” –
and bomb the ruins again and again
with thousand plane raids, death
birds over our cities in a crusade
for nothing.
Burn the cities to ashes,
then burn the ashes.
My mind is a sterile desert,
smoking of concrete dust from
an eternal storm of TNT.
Out of the mouth of the dragon
they all will march, stormtroopers,
paratroopers, paratyphoid and its
granny; panzer divisions, brigade
battle groups, battalion combat teams –
and, in the sky, choppers like a swarm
of locusts, attack divisions renting
the sky asunder with their thunder.
Storm of TNT, storm of steel and lead.
The prize of brass going up, the prize
of pussy going down. The Whore of Babylon
dancing with the King of the World
in the ruins of Metropolis.
8.
The Apocalypse is raging.
My life is internet and
emptiness, booze and pills,
loneliness and decay.
Decay, decay, rotting decay,
I stumble ‘round
in rotting decay.
An iron rod ruling forever –
one third of humanity
dying, one translocated to
the hologram, one third
remaining –
yea, verily, some surviving
but only to stand on a
beach where a radio is playing
“So Long Ago, So Clear” with
Vangelis, and the sky is grey
and the waves are rolling in.